I realized that I had not topped up my/. subscription in some time and went to do so. Saw this:

"Please Note: Buying or gifting of a new subscription is not availableat the moment. We apologize for the inconvenience. This downtime thoughdoes not effect your current active subscription in any way. We willkeep you posted on the latest"

Any idea what's going on? Are they sticking to a pure ad model (all blocked anyhow, but I did like to subscribe as I like the ol' barn.)

Today is Tuesday the sixth of September in 2016, the day of the grace and peace of our Lord, the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit. The day of salvation, grace, blessing and redemption. If not today, then what other day?

Been away from computers for a few years. Most libraries have committed to photo identification. So, a quick recap since the last time I remember posting.

After La Jolla's finest paid those two thugs to jump and beat me in the middle of the night (their voices still haven't dropped, I continue to get bigger and better daily) I stuck around for another year or so. Then the La Jolla's finest people sent four of their children swinging baseball bats; not literally. Remember that video, from the early 2000s, though? Four kids show up at night and beat a homeless man to death? Turns out that is standard practice for rich people (see http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/ for additional information about the nature of the rich wealth in the world). When the rich people don't want you around anymore they begin rushing their dogs and, if that won't work, they send four kids. What are you going to do when four kids show up picking a fight? I tried to counsel the kids to go home. Apparently that was too much. I spent six months in jail. The original filing was five counts of public exposure (one for each child on the scene) and five counts of offending a minor (one for each child on the scene). I asked the responding officer that day,"What's with the peanut gallery hanging out on the porch of the bank across the street?" "I don't know, I was going to ask you the same thing", was the response from the officer. So we both established that neither one of us had any idea what these kids were doing hanging out in a bank parking lot heckling a homeless man from across the street and halfway down the block, cheering and waving and jeering. Just before the police arrived I had even asked the children, who had been screaming "Look over here! Hey, homeless guy! We're over here!" Of course you're _there_, you've been waving and screaming at me from across the street for the last fifteen minutes. So I called and asked,"What are you even doing here? What could you possibly want?"

"SHOW US YOUR DICK!" they screamed. I waved them off and called,"You need to go home!"

Well, instead, the police arrived and I spent six months sitting in a dorm of societies largest rejects. The original filing was for ten misdemeanor counts and LIFETIME registration as a sex offender, because the called claimed that there was a homeless man parading up and down the sidewalk exposing himself and masturbating on the open sidewalk. The final result after six months? One misdemeanor count and a ZERO DOLLAR TICKET.

Do you know how many zero dollar tickets I have? A zero dollar ticket is the courthouse way of sweeping things under the rug. Zero dollars, nobody needs to talk about it. I have a ten year running record of zero dollar tickets, and I still get extra crap from police. Or, how about tracking? The police have been taking my personal information, name, SSN, DOB, for ten years. One, two, three times each month, on average, I get interviewed by police... but they still get me confused when they are "getting calls". They get calls because somebody is panhandling, begging, laying out drunk, drinking, or trying to buy "drugs". In ten years I have zero dollar ticket after zero dollar ticket, and none of them have ever had anything to do with marijuana, but the police still come hassle me because "we've been getting calls". The police have been taking my personal information, name, SSN, DOB, monthly for ten years and they still come hassle me because "we've been getting calls". You don't know who I am yet? You don't know what I do yet? The judge knows I smoke marijuana and has never seen fit to press any ticket against me for it.

A complete SNAFU and FUBAR. Ten years I've beeen homeless and the rich people can still send the police after me with a telephone call, a defamatory telephone call, a malicious and defamatory telephone call.

Well, if that doesn't work, maybe they'll just send four of their kids.

Could you search the court dockets? Find the number of filings that begin with ten counts and request for lifetime registration and then get dropped to one count and zero dollars.

And the officer on the scene and I had both determined that neither of us had any idea what those kids were even doing there.

Those are the rich people.

After that I left and went to Riverside county for the last year. Complete rip-off. Here's a summation of Riverside county. They've got 2-gram eighths (eighth of an ounce, do the math) for $40, they've got leaf shake for $10 per gram, and everybody in the county flies around hitting the hash vapo openly all day long. Perris? Jay owes me five, Abraham owes me twenty, and Too Tall has nothing but shake at $10/gram. Murrietta? Noah owes me twenty five, and both Mike and Rashik would routinely hit me up for lunch and "spare a couple bucks?" every time I passed through. Teme-killah? Haven't seen any of it. Stash in Sun City will hook up okay, but it's all shake with barely a few flavor crystals (little bit nuggets from right next to the stem). All the shanty-campers in Wildomar are tweekers and won't sell you a bud to save their own lives. Lake Elsinore, dude still owes me five and begs me for spare dollars every time I'm through there.

And everywhere in Riverside the people are hitting the hash vapo. You can catch a contact high almost anywhere from the hash vapo, smell it walking down almost any road, but if the homeless guy sparks a bowl then it's helicopters, sirens, and people screaming everywhere, and if you ask anybody about buying a bud they're either ripping you off completely or calling the police. Nothing personal, but, from the honest bud business point of view: F*$K riverside county, CA. Twenty after twenty after twenty went out the window as the pretendo street people (they aren't real homeless or street people, they're rich kids kicked out of mommy and daddies' basement, scamming people like me so they can buy alcohol and lunch) would play the "I'll be right back", or "I'll be back in an hour", or "I'll be back this afternoon", and really all they were doing was keeping you waiting so the dog-faggit rich people could begin calling the police.

There's one police officer, in Murrietta, fat-ass old piece of shit. He knows I go to church daily, he knows I practice a religion, so his game is to wait in the parking lot by the donut shop down the street and he has told me,"If I see you again I'm going to write you a ticket for loitering, and then you'll have to go to jail, and you see all your stuff? You will lose all of it." OOOOOOOH! You're so big and tough and powerful. You think this is the first time I have "lost all of it"? You fat-ass prik piece of sh*t. That should be a religious hate crime and criminal stalking, for your stupid punk-ass to wait by the donut shop after morning mass to give me a ticket if you so much as see me.

But, those are the rich people. Somebody make sure that fat-ass officer doesn't get too close to any children, fat ass pedophile faggit (all rich people are pedos, that's just what they get to do after whoring themselves out to a dog for their money).

After my first two months in Riverside all of my gear was lifted up and stolen by a passing car while I sat at the Hidden Springs Starbucks having coffee one morning. Come to find out later that was also an unofficial police job.

Have I reminded everybody that the rich people, across the entire world, are all part of an animal sex whorehouse--specifically with their dogs?

One green eggs and ham (blow the dog, eat the poo) is club membership and about one million dollars. Children are about $300k/each for sex. They don't have to be "millionaires", but, with the spare change they have left over they still have more money than any working man this year. That's the way the world works.

You are not real humans. Real humans have halos and wings. You are re-rolled sacks of poop, and the "women" are eunuchs. You must walk about 5000 miles to begin tightening up to be a "real" human and begin dropping your voice, for real. Until then you are all part of an arranged train set that runs on a 400 year script. Call it predestination. You are going to hell.

So rich people are still dog fags and pedophiles, the police are still paid thugs for rich people, and there are plenty of "rich kids" in the police forces everywhere. Marijuana is still near impossible to buy with an honest dollar, but, as long as you don't need your job as a working man, the hash vapo is available as a medical for just about anybody with a runner's knee or tennis elbow.

Your brain is not open. When you make sound, you make sound with the brain stem only. You need to walk about five thousand miles to open that back up--keep going. The condition is known as faggit, runt, witch... kicked out of the garden. That's where humans begin if they are a re-rolled second generation human. The real humans all went to hell already, long time ago.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/http://mapfortu.wikispaces.com/

I need twenties, cash and bud. I don't drink, I don't "do drugs", I don't beg, I don't leave trash, I don't dig, I don't camp. I keep all of my belongings with me, packed up tight, and carry everything I have. I stay clean, I continue to observe the Liturgy of the Hours (said nine of the book prayers yesterday, and usually make three or four of them), and I'm the only human on the planet since before Adam (and Eve, that hottie eunuch) to walk far enough to drop his voice, for real.

"You do the hokey-pokey and turn yourself around" and THAT'S what it's all about. A real human, with halos and wings, may indeed turn themselves inside out. Like a chinese yoyo going through paper rollers. You stick your tongue up your nose, keep working on perfecting yourself, and when "she" (your brain) is ready then the brain reaches from behind that wall in the back of your nose (that's where the boogers come from, out of and off of your brain, past that wall on either side, and then out your nose), and sucks you up. If you are divine clay then you will unroll in layers and your brain will take what it needs to fill out like a balloon figure. If you are all fat and wet between the layers then you would blow apart, so you can't even stick your tongue up your nose to try, and your brain is all clogged out with boogers. It's not what you think, honey, it's all in your head, the real woman of your dreams is right behind your eyes, you need to go for a walk. Until then you can play with the eunuchs on the way to hell. Maybe you can be one of the rich people and have homosexual sex with the dogs (and other animals), too.

Did you know that there's a space in the back of your nose to stick your tongue into, like a resting gliderport? If not, that's okay, that is what we call "kicked out of the garden". Your tongue is kicked out and you can't get back in. Five thousand miles to go, try to be holy and perfect on the way.

Ask those two punk thugs that jumped me in the middle of the night how their life is these days? Are they proud of what they did? Did their little night raid improve their life? The first one that jumped me, how's your knee, fag? When he came back the second night with his buddy I managed to take his legs out from him (while being punched by both of them) and he landed pretty hard on his knee. Serves you right for jumping a homeless man. Using a cane yet, or still trying to work with whirlpool therapy? And the other fellow... how's your life? Your friends probably think you're a real tough guy (*HAHAHAHAHA*).

And those four kids that the rich people sent at me. How's your lives, little doggie kids? Do your friends look up to you for the scene you put on that Saturday morning. I bet the funniest joke with your friends is still "show us your dick". And you'll be living with that for the rest of your life.

Eff with me. Just eff with me. Just keep up your little faggit rich game playing keep away with the bud, calling the police, and following me around at night. Keep that up, see how that works for you. I know of six individuals in particular that wish they had never taken the occasion to come and mess with me.

Come and get it. Maybe you will win, so to speak. Maybe you'll get to punch me, and maybe you'll get to hurt me, and maybe you'll get to throw my blankets away, and ruin things... but, between now and next year, I'll will be better, your voice still won't drop, and what little wretched life you have will turn into a comedy show. AND you're still going to hell.

Last September I went on the most amazing thing ever: the first ever Motorhead's Motorboat! A heavy metal cruise full of great bands that went Miami - Key West - Cozumel - Miami. Four days of partying and heavy music.

The weekend celebration of All Saints' Day brought along a tune, Ye Holy Angels Bright. In this tune there is spoken of "those who toil below". In prayers from past weeks, there was spoken of "tongues... under the earth". In the scripture there are not found references to eyes of animals, or eyes of beasts. The holy scripture is a compendium, a large tapestry, of real concepts. If an item or concept is real then it will have a reference in scripture, albeit the entirety of scripture necessary to provide this reference compendium is an enormous tapestry. The tapestry has stories and modes but, as all tapestries do, has particularities and important nuances which are often in no way related to the surrounding imagery in the tapestry. What is this "under the earth" and "those who toil below"? Why would such vocabulary be used in the scripture? Saturday, Week III, Office of the Readings, includes references to those who sailed the seas, and then those individuals reeling like drunken men, the Lord placating their cries. What are these concepts in the tapestry?

Is necessary to understand the progression of history to properly align sailors on the sea with row-bots, and the biomedical anatomy of the row-bot as a model line much older than the Model-T, and therefore much more advanced. These concepts and more explained in the Reader's Guide to the Sphinx and the predecessor work Template Timeline. My personal favorite writing achievement was the production of Fifo2ed. I had planned to rewrite TT as another F2 achievement but produced the Reader's Guide instead.

I have written of the Liturgy of the Hours, the practice of Christian Prayer, in the wikispaces material. http://mapfortu.wikispaces.com/loth

The artwork in the book is in keeping with the history of the world. The page across from the "common of the dedication of a church" (around 1370 or so) depicts the Virgin Mary in the middle of the page, with a background of various color wash areas, a large megacomplex looking church in her bosom, and a population of black humanoid figures leaving the megacomplex. The grey area at the top of the picture is the trees to the dome, press paper, twist thread, make blankets, poke soap, learn how to use spindle sticks for thread, create linen fire. In the process learn all of the possibilities for throwing the baby out with the bathwater and mummifying him with the paper roll in the kiln, because, at that time, there were real women making real gumbies. Further experimentation determines peak ages for surviving mummification and levels of historical injury resulting in failed resurrections--the passover lamb is the oldest possible human in current society, with the current baby set, that could survive a mummification; past that age the modern baby has too many boogers. In the original times, small gumbies run off and, when large enough, come in from the field--the prophets. The top border is grey because the trees are gone, and so are the real women, and the real men, all gone, grey. The next dark red area depicts the time when the men were running out and the medium red area tells when no men were rolling inside out to make women any longer--that slice of the moon, when the women begin looking at each other wondering "who let one go?" because nobody is making any new gumbies anymore, either. Good thing the prophets come in from the field and then it's a game to collect children. The humans weren't exactly playing proper with their "children", and the steam pressed new ones were treated even worse. Below the slice of the moon the real women are running out, too and, by the portion of the picture below the slice, all new men are steam-pressed new ones, no more are coming in from the field, and none of the men are flipping inside out to make new women, so all the new "girls" are steam-pressed new eunuchs.

The history of this progression then allows for the construction of the megacomplex, the perfection of the performance of the function of the boxes (to assist with "lair-n-get-us" and the blowgun). The trees were packed to the dome, humans cleared a space, began building towers, towers filled the trees on the earth, then take the towers apart as the trees get cut lower and lower and lower, eventually hit the surface, mine the place out, convict all real dogs to the kingdoms of the phaeries (inside the depths), board the phaeries up in hell, mezzanine on top of plumbing drains to keep the dogs and bugs in the basement.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

The humanoid figures are black because they are all steam-pressed new ones, no real ones any more.

As protozoa evolve into bacteria, and the amoeba does its exercises, and perhaps fungi and early photosynthetic plants, but all in the water. They meet dry land and adapt. Amoeba move, plants do not. Consider from the axes of symmetry available to the perception of an organism at the single cell or rudimentary multicell level. Those organisms don't even really think in terms of XYZ coordinate systems, more they adapt according to reactions occuring at the cell surface and the competing progressions of biochemical pathways. Plants have a problem. They do not move. Life, outside of the primordial type floating around in the water, develops espousal. Trees espouse birds. Where exactly do the birds come from, like griffons? Well, that's not really to say because it's so long ago and so far away. Trees espouse birds, like griffons. Birds have bird brains and lay eggs. They do not kernel up within themselves like a tree does with the fruit of its branch. Your spouse does what you cannot; the griffons are basically useless except that they move, which the trees do not. Big chickens. When the trees espouse a bird good enough to self-kernel, with a brain advanced enough to self-kernel, then you have a bird man, with wings off his butt and flying with his head close to the ground and feet forward. If the bird man exercises on it enough then maybe he unkernels, and then you have a bird woman. She puts out gumbies, less than half the size of a finger, baby got lost in the bathwater, the braille system on keyboards is training to not miss this particular bundle arrangement again while pressing the leaves and old paper in the bathwater.

In this world...

This world is a terrarium. Large enough that it makes little difference while on the sandy surface. Refer to my books.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

The terrarium began packed to the dome with phaeries, bugs, big chickens, and a few bird men. Bird men grew in population, began regimenting the land, became stupid. Began drinking in the grape juice pits (grapes practically ferment themselves) and practicing various tricks of magic and escapism branding and killing each other in known good ways around the firepit and then make grand reappearances when they healed. Bird men building boxes and advancing technology learned the deliberate methods for wrapping the baby up in the bathwater, and that interfaced with the idiots killing each other around the firepits. Stupid as the whole situation was, they did not immediately die out. There were many long spans of time before the bird men were stupid enough to each other as a whole society that they all fell past the point where they would no longer recover from their tricks and jokes and games and injuries, at that point the ones with experience in mummification began determining exactly at what point the brain could no longer be mummified and the whole resurrected. In the course of all that time there had been many studies into the exact workings of the brain and the exact placement of boogers and other blocking materials and agents. Seahorses were also common by that time. The humans had indeed practiced with boiling each other and many of each other down, cutting them up, sewing them together, figuring out what works and what doesn't.

And, back then, they knew what real dogs were, they knew what polymorph sewing combinations were popular and worked and what the resulting lifespans and characterisms of such beasts were.

That was all long before they even had the chainsaw and could keep up with the vegetation to cut it down to the sandy surface.

The final result is: terrarium, hell down below, heaven and the steam press for new babies on top of that, the carnival on the terraces on top to age the meat and ship it to hell in a contractual sort of agreement.

Some fella gave to me two bills, folded up, the night the attack boys were hauled off, with the words,"I want you to go to St. Vincent's." Usually I would take the cash and, if he ever appeared again, tell him politely to mind his own business or (and if necessary) keep his cash. This fellow I know I would see again, within polite social circumstances, so I had decided that the money, turns out to be a pair of twenties, was well enough to cover a PR trip to St. Vincent de Paul. Rode the bus, packed, to Old Town, walked past the college to the Gaslamp, then out to 32nd to sleep. Morning trolley to fifth, go have Starbucks at the plaza, take the refill by foot through the Gaslamp for a morning tour to St. Vincent's. Was able to say hello to everybody around the lot, say hello to the folks up the block, and then to the visitor's center.

Exactly what is it that you do here? If I were to view your facility as a business unit, exactly what is the final product and output here? The joke is that they indirectly fill caskets and somewhat receive donations related to names disappearing from other lists. A four square system: the individual checks into St. Vincent's, eventually the quit appearing in the other three squares, on the other side, when a name quits filling any of its squares, then there's a payout for the name disappearing. Funds circle their way back around to the investment facility staffing a particular square. My written work describes 12th and Imperial as the "babylonian furnace", hyperaccelerated. There's a special subfacility for visitors which are predisposed to certain of the conditions needed to fill their room assignment in the house at gerar process running beneath the babylonian furnace.

Well, anyway, there weren't many answers nor were there counsellors available to discuss options and planning, so she remarked,"That's the first time I'd ever heard that one" with a very polite and friendly smile and was able to find a brochure detailing the medical benefits available with the St. Vincent de Paul program.

Walk to the stop north of Santa Fa depot, trolley to Old Town. I intended to use Pacific Coast but found my way via Sea World. The Sea World route is nicer, I had not remembered quite how to achieve it but stumbled on it by accident and did not argue. Enjoyed lunch in PB on Garnet. One plate for spnach and rich and one plate for ice cream and cake.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

I hear that the two fellows, out on bail I presume, have been cruising the alleys in their white truck asking for me at nights. Two other local homeless people, here for as long as I have been and longer, were cited in the past two nights (unclear which one) for illegal lodging. Leading to the incident they were disturbed by the two white males in the white truck asking for me in the early hours of the morning, leading to the encounter with the police.

Good for me I have been gone for two nights. When am I supposed to fix my hat?

Exactly what part of what I say is "talkin sh*t". From the legal aspect, with definitions. In the context of modern language and communication, "talkin sh*t" is often related to a disparity between speech and practice. The exact disparity and exact size of disparity, the variation in the disparity over time, and the stresses and releases available to the disparity, are related to what sounds are completely "natural", ie. the sounds made when the eunuch pokes or prods you in a particular muscle at a particular point when you are performing a particular task, or the sound you make when the priests are jumping on your stomach and drilling you in the belly button, there are other sounds in worse regions of abuse, but few and often inconsequential, assigned to musings and fleeting thoughts in the languages.

So exactly what part of what I say, or write, is talkin' shi*t? Everybody after Adam is talking shit, they know they need to go for a longer walk. Everybody after Cain's lineage knows they need to go for a longer walk. Everybody after Seth's lineage knows they need to not beg at the temple steps (get taken inside and eunuch'd) or suck the temple's tit (run a tax shelter like St. Paul) when he gets back; it he stays back for long enough maybe they'll gather and kick his butt to a summer vacation like I just had. Everybody after Noah knows they should forgive and quit trying to get more. Everybody after Melchizedek knows they should at least try to make it past the door. It's no secret who is actually talking shit. Like listening for the faggitts on the streets. You know what they sound like, listen carefully and you may be able to find and even identify them.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

I was thinking about refactoring the material on the wiki as an list of "Collections"...

Collections of injuries leading to a passover.Collections of injuries leading to loss of voice.Collections of boogers leading to loss of consciousness (neural revolvers)Collections of people pressing paper to a firepit.Collections of people gathering leaves to make a stongehenge circle; the common meeting ground, the paper shack, the sorting and rerouting, the roundhouse.Collections of stonehenge circles to make a community.Collections of easter island looking people walking around on stonehenge routes in small similar communities, like Ninevah.Collections of people around the firepit to add the fireplace, the over, the kiln, the overhead structure, walls, maybe door (Arpachshad), maybe even attic, windmill outside, maybe a water wheel, threshing floor and grindstone (Melchizedek). Now Ninevah may have boxes.

Make it to the blowgun. Collections of what? The neural revolver helps the blowgun, and the blowgun helps the neural revolver, but somewhere in there some very intelligent choirmasters got the humans together and figured out how to precisely knock out notes while yelling at each other, and how to make a windpipe capable of the same effect, then how to set them up, how to make it work better or best in various boxes, while they are saying things like "Today this scroll has been fulfilled in your he-ARRRRR'ing" or other susceptible phrases.

They beat me up enough last night to make me lose some voice as if I had been yelling. I'll take a week clearing that out. Fella returned with his friend. Adolf Frenchie and Super-happy Grinnie (with diamond stud earring). Kicked me awake at 3 AM and then beat me out in animal style, kicking and punching. I walked to make my report and, upon returning through the area for sleep, they arrived in a white SUV. Exiting the SUV with a beast they began taunting,"You like the pit bull? You like the pit bull?" It wasn't like they were going to attack me with it. No, he was taunting as he led the beast toward me. Because they f* their beasts for their money. A good portion of this is the eighth year of the sphinx. They're mad that I won't get a job or f* the dog. Many of them, growing up, were assaulted and beaten and raped by their parents until they would give and go f* the dog.

Managed to duck around enough corners to escape them and the beast, I heard them call "get the SUV" one to the other as I took off. Then I made as much noise as possible, ringing doorbell and rapping on window, to get one call to the police (hopefully), and I ran to the pay phone to make another 911 call. Hopefully to bring as many squads from as many directions as possible to catch them before they left the scene. The police did indeed arrive, did indeed drive around the corner in time (I kept going off near like a teapot in my head,"could you please just drive around the corner and apprehend their vehicle before they leave") but outwardly kept my patience and allowed the officers to handle the situation, I hardly said a word. The officers did meet the two, did tow their vehicle, did take them to jail. Is only a misdemeanor ticket, though, so they likely post bail in the morning and then that's that for people like them. If they don't bother to show up to court the green eggs and ham lawyer for their particular collective group will.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

The wiki website has a good breakdown for the various levels of financial control and the associated ages at which they were brought into the dark side of life. That material is in Template Timeline. Plenty of associated material and references are in the Reader's Guide and here in the journal history.

Perhaps we could say I was beaten two nights in a row. The first night I ate the green eggs and the second night they ate the ham when their attack boys were taken away by the police. I could even pay them as the subcontractor for the ham; that's a common transaction in their culture.

They like to run their secret parade in attack mode on me. One of the officers commented in last night's incident,"They don't seem to beat up the other homeless people. You're the only one that gets it." Later, in a discussion about the number of incidents upon which I had been blindly beaten in the middle of the night, he said,"But it wasn't the same person that beat you up the last time." That's why it is called a hate group. Different people from different walks of life are able to give that excuse,"it wasn't the same person that beat you" while "they don't seem to bother any of the other homeless people." All the other homeless people are chipped and wired paid and financed, on assignment in the green eggs and ham and worse animal prostitution ship, largely. They like to run their secret parade in attack mode, but they don't like to hear about it, even if I am talking at a barely audible whisper. Social isolation, such as homelessness such as I have documented, with a daily life of prayer and two walking pilgrimages, results the individual talks largely to themselves. In my discussions of hell I have noted that, until they beat you to silly putty at the bottom by mining you inside out for the hundred milliliter daily soaking and sponging to produce lipid bilayer for the bugs, until the entire process beats you to silly putty, then you will not stop moving or making noise. That is top of the food chain meat. We have eunuchs, we have torsos, we have roosters, we have three hands on roosters, in the kingdom of heaven they put together the big asmodeus clusterscrew by turning the paschal lamb into shiva plus as many other hands as they have these days. It's an atrocious world. Terrible.

The police counseled, the ticket was only a misdemeanor, the fellows would likely post bail at the earliest possible A.M. Their explanation to the police was that I had "assaulted them first", I suppose that means that they report that I initiated the event. Without impact I implored the officer,"Notice that, over all of these years, near everybody that beats me in the middle of the night claims that same excuse."

And where else to go? Morro Bay police likely had a call that all of the goodies out walking their dogs were zeroing in on something. Atascadero saw fewer goodies with dogs, but the police noticed the homeless people waiting at the area dinner for the new guy. Lompoc police put on a half-block show to encourage me to keep moving as quickly as possible, that they had received warnings that the goodies were on the chase on something. Rinaldi, the police were in the parade line. Orcutt! DEPUTY! The deputy told me to keep moving that day because his office had received indications that the goodies were talking about doing something terrible to that new homeless guy that does nothing but pray with _that book_ all day long.

So where else to go? Everywhere I go the goodies are always hot on the chase with their dogs, except the places where whispers of "there are too many people working" means that there are too many jobbies to start running the dogs and kids in bikinis everywhere over the homeless man all night long. Near every town I came to saw signs in the block or two away of the usual clouds of possible fight scenes beginning to form. I never stayed anywhere very long on this summer's vacation walk (earlier journal entries, maybe five or ten back, maybe more by now).

They're all chipped and wired. They're all the goodies, with animals with dogs, dead eye reanimated carnival sewing monstrosities. That's their way, that's how they do, that's what they do, that's the way it is.

I know what this is all about. They are all chipped and wired, and they are unhappy because, since returning from the summer vacation walk, I have been muttering all day long "they ate, they ee-tered it, that ate-er-ated it, they ate it" and "you ate? you ate it! you ate it... oh no! you're going to hell" and other segments from earlier journal entries. This happened back at the beginning of the http://daypage.wikispaces.com/ material when I first postulated that they were all chipped and wired on remote control, and began talking to the "secret microphone" by telling them to go f* their dog; as I had recently deduced that they did indeed spork their hoagie for their money, do the freaknastery with the dagnabbery for the blingdiddery, and then they all get chipped and wired. This "game" is all they have.

So when enough of them begin pouting about what you're saying, whether or not you're yelling it or muttering it, then they get to hire somebody to come and beat you up. Because that is how they do their children. I have earlier written about the scene with Method Man, good upstanding fella, standing off in a corner with a shovel. He managed to smack the first one in the rush, and they probably ended up looking like me, but he was inside, and the rush with the doctors and the dental prosthetic to teach him how to make his million dollars. Good Meth, standing at the ready in the corner with a shovel, his brain unraveling the reality in front of him,"You're all faggitts! You're all faggitts! *step step whack*" and then the rush.

While I was on summer vacation enough new ones rotated around the general shuffle that they have been unhappy about me taunting them on their own secret microphone system, following quite well with the incident following my initial exploration into the possibility that they were indeed all chipped and wired and on a system which they did not administer.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

http://daypage.wikispaces.com/

According to the way the sphinx works, and the way the languages are constructed, and the way real nature works, I'm helping you to hell anyway. You're performance of the situation, the six hours you spent practicing with a dummy in advance to ensure that you could *set set set snap* *set set set pop* The fellow didn't really dance around much, he had spent time practicing for the entire situation. I thought, early on,"should I raise my hands to block", but decided that may only encourage him to become excited. C'mon, s*itbag, do what you're gonna do, take your shots, get the hell oughtta here. Cameras everywhere, drone spy seagulls probably have the whole thing with audio.

Pharauh had friends. They were neuroseurgeons. They loved to take him apart and put him back together and take him apart again, and they became very good in the taking apart and the putting back together. They were very interested in the brain, both for revolver and flipping purposes. They learned exactly which channel, which crevice, which pocket was related to which sound. The established which crevice and pocket was tied to which muscle, and which exact range of motion. In the days of the original humans there were variations in the matching. In the early steam pressed humans there were variations in the matching. The line of steam pressed new humans achieved a level of scientific perfection to ensure that, within quality limits, the exact crevasse, trench, channel, and pocket of the brain would be matched to an acceptable range of sound and muscular motion. They also discovered that the brain, if plugged down to the brain stem, produced a yet very functional human. The standardization of the steam press line allowed them to develop very predictable methods for plugging very particular sections of the brain through injury, and economized the process to establish full ventilatory blockage between the stem and the lobes, using the channels, pockets, crevasses, and trenches. Pharaoh's friends, the doctors, established very predictable methods of making pharoah do this, or do that, or perform tasks which were designed to facilitate disuse of ranges of motion which could be predictably plugged up with other methods. Physical injuries settle in the muscles and the brain becomes lax about them and, if he doesn't stretch those out or sing through those notes, there is a higher chance that he will not recover those areas. Larger injuries work even better. Have him stay on the couch all day long, sit exactly like this, ride along on wheels, maybe use turnip carts to gimp the ankles and knees. Pharaoh's friends became very good at this. They choreographed years and decades long sequences to assist with position just the exact injury or the correct sounds to culminate with regions which had been softened up along the way.

Now, pharaoh's doctors have it all set up for you.

There is a real neurological and physiological reason why you cannot walk with your heels above the ground. That is a memory space in your brain stem which is blocked off from you. The result is: faggitt. Another one in the line of steam press ones in the world full of them going to hell.

There is a real neuro and physio reason why your voice hasn't dropped. There is a real neuro and physio reason why you cannot move your tongue inside the back of your nose. Those regions for those muscular positions are boogered up and blocked off. The result is: faggitt.

And they tore your wings off your butt the moment they steam pressed you. That wasn't quite enough to completely knock the lobes off the stem and kick Adam out of the garden, but close.

Other reliable methods are having sex with an eunuch. That will creep your brain out and lock you down to the stem the first, if not the second, time. Eating green eggs and ham, similarly. Eating the green eggs is bad enough, but why the ham? They're going to hell anyway, the ham ensures they'll make it the first, if not definitely by the second, offense.

On the green eggs and ham, nowadays they're all dead reanimated parts anyway. What is this "under the earth"? The bible is a catalogue of everything real, maybe the words are out of sequence on occasion, or maybe the scene needs to be analyzed with the surrounding tapestry on occasion, but it's all real. There are never "eyes of a beast" in the bible, nor are there "eyes of an animal", because those are not real concepts. Either the eyes were alive or they weren't. But, recently, there is this "under the earth". What is this "under the earth"? They speak of it highly, as if there are many tongues there to proclaim that Jesus is Lord, as if it could be a consideration that some of the tongues may not proclaim, so they need to write it down.

What is this "under the earth" of which they speak? It's real, it's in the bible.